


Aftermath

by owlaholic68



Series: Evil Karma Carla [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 2
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Evil, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Groping, Physical Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: After Carla blows up the Oil Rig, after they return to Arroyo, things are both better and worse.





	1. Chapter 1

Things are fine until they get to Arroyo. It’s awkward because Lenny doesn’t know any of these people beyond a few vague stories, names that he can’t put to faces. There’s an explosion of everyone properly meeting each other, two separated generations meeting after so long, the Vault Dwellers mingling with the Arroyo villagers.

Lenny doesn’t talk to any of them. He doesn’t know how, even if he cared. Which he doesn’t. There’s only one focal point in his life.

Carla is so light now, so bright and wonderful like she never had been before. She smiles and chats with her people, laughs at jokes and plays catch with children. Any enemies the group encounters on their slow trip north are handily taken care of, but her usual ferocity has abated.

It’s the honeymoon period they never got to have, and Lenny drinks up every second of it, every moment of affection willingly given. Carla sows affection like an overzealous farmer, smothering him with it until he can’t hardly breathe for how hard he’s laughing, and his face hurts from smiling too much.

Then they get to Arroyo.

It all starts going downhill.

The rebuilding of the central building goes awry, and Carla yells at someone (her older cousin, maybe?) until they start yelling back, then it devolves into a physical confrontation. Carla’s the victor, of course, left standing above her enemy with bloodied fists, the poor man crying mercy. It’s only the fact that there are children watching, wide-eyed and frightened, that makes her turn away.

“C-Carla-” Lenny had come running at the commotion, his first aid kit clutched to his chest. Carla grabs his arm hard enough to make him wince, towing him away from the scene before he can see if the man needed medical attention.

“Popped a vein in my hand,” Carla mutters, dragging him into her empty tent.

That’s an incredibly minor injury compared to what the man outside probably has sustained, but Lenny holds his tongue. He gently takes Carla’s right hand and examines it, wiping away the blood.

He peeks up at her face. She’s breathing heavily, eyes narrowed and face contorted in an angry snarl. Whatever anger caused her to get violent, it hasn’t subsided. “Stimpack?” He whispers like he’s coaxing a terrified animal. This is a dangerous Carla who might not be satisfied with the havoc she’d wreaked outside.

Carla shakes her head, her long loose hair shifting with the movement. “No. Healing powder.”

A popped vein from hitting something too hard isn’t a serious injury, and all it takes is a quick check to make sure there aren’t any broken knuckles before Lenny whips up a paste from healing powder, spreading the mixture on Carla’s raw knuckles and methodically wrapping thin bandages around them.

When he finishes, he takes a chance and raises her right hand to his lips, briefly kissing the bandage before shyly lowering his eyes, worried that Carla wouldn’t be in the mood for something sweet.

This brings a ghost of a smile to her lips. She sighs. “What am I to do.” It’s not a question, not an invitation to speak. “I don’t know how to be the leader these people deserve. I don’t know how to make them understand how I want things done when sometimes they just don’t fucking _listen._ I tried asking Mother for advice, but she told me to be _nice.”_ She frowns. “Like that got me anywhere before. Like _that_ saved them from the Enclave. What they need isn’t a mamby-pamby leader who’ll get all of them killed.” With one hand, she tugs at strands of her hair, fingers digging into her scalp.

It’s a bad habit that she hasn’t indulged in for months, something that she said makes her feel real and not just a specter of a human being. “C-Can I braid your hair?” Lenny quietly asks. It’s one of the few things that will stop her from tearing out chunks every five minutes.

Carla looks up at him with surprise, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Okay.” After he maneuvers to kneel behind her on their bedroll, she speaks again, quieter, her voice calmer. “Advice, Len. Give me your advice.”

She’s never asked him directly for his opinion before. Lenny takes his time thinking over the problem, separating Carla’s coarse hair into sections. “These p-people don’t know you,” he starts. “They d-don’t know what you want. If you t-talk to them and listen to their c-concerns, they’ll trust you.”

“A town meeting.” Carla thoughtfully hums, reaching for her hair again before stopping herself, not wanting to mess up Lenny’s work. “It’s not a half bad idea, Len.”

Lenny ties off the end of the single long braid with a scrap of fabric from Carla’s old Vault suit. He works quickly. This is not the first time he’s had to do this, though the advice part is new. Carla half-turns to survey his work, flipping the braid over her shoulder. “You should probably patch up Lucas. If I want them to trust me…” She gives him a decisive nod. “Go find Lucas and heal him as you would me.”

Finally, an opening to leave, and Lenny gratefully takes it.

* * *

Things are going better. The village is on a steady track to rebuilding itself and Carla is constantly busy, only taking breaks for meals. The idea to hold consistent town meetings had paid off. People stop questioning Carla’s ideas, instead phrasing their objections as suggestions. After what happened with Lucas, they know better now.

Lenny spends much of his time alone, drafting up plans for a small clinic in the emerging business district. It’s not a big plan, and he hasn’t even told Carla that he’s thinking about it yet.

He spends the early part of the afternoon penning a letter to Harold to inform his close friend that he had settled in Arroyo, and asking for news from Gecko. He seals the envelope and ventures out into the village to put it the communal mailbox, along with a few caps for the delivery. On the way back to the tent, the village Elder intercepts him.

“Would you like to have afternoon tea with me, dear?” She asks, laying one wrinkled hand on his arm.

“Umm…” He has never really talked with the Elder, even though she was Carla’s mom. “I – I’m not sure, Ma’am, I don’t know-” Across the central courtyard, Carla notices him and raises her eyebrow. He gives her a small wave and nods at the Elder. “I, I guess…”

“Wonderful. Lenny, dear, I feel like I barely know you. Come, sit. I have tea and some dried fruit, a rare treat.”

The Elder’s tent is small but cozy, filled with pillows and baskets of sweet-smelling herbs. She pours them both cups of fragrant tea from an earthenware pot, then takes out a meager handful of dried dates and apricots, giving half to Lenny. They’re sweet, not sweet like a crusty package of Old World candy, but sweeter than anything he’s had in a while. The tea, herbal and slightly bitter, contrasts the food.

“So.” The Elder eyes him over. “Tell me about yourself. How long have you been travelling with my daughter?”

Lenny unspools his life story like he’s unrolling a bandage, layer after layer coming apart. Born in San Francisco. Became a doctor. Was in Bakersfield when the bombs dropped, ended up in the faulty vault, ended up like how he is now. Hopped from place to place, going wherever would take him. Ended up in Gecko. Ended up with Carla.

The Elder nods throughout his story. The last dregs of Lenny’s tea get cold and thick as he finishes speaking. “You have lived a long and fascinating life. So why stay here? Why not go somewhere else? You don’t have to be stuck here for the rest of your life.”

The question twists up inside him. “Ma’am? Wh-what are you talking about?”

She looks deep into his eyes and picks out the upset tangle of emotions swirling around in his head. Why would she ask that? Is it not obvious why he stays? “You love Carla,” she says, like an unexpected revelation.

“Of c-course I do, Ma’am.”

She pats his knee. “Of course you do, dear. And none of that ‘Ma’am’ nonsense, you hear me?” Her tone softens. “Call me Mother.”

When Lenny bids her goodbye and returns to his own tent, he spends several minutes crying into his pillow. He doesn’t know why.

* * *

“Mail! Mail!” One of Carla’s younger distant cousins, a kid from the Vault, runs around distributing mail to everyone. It’s not a lot, but there are some letters for Carla, and one for Lenny.

It’s from Harold. He expresses his relief that Lenny is alive and well, and gives him some news about Gecko, though nothing serious. It pleases him to know that the place he once called home still thrives.

“Who’d you get mail from?” Carla asks, peeking over his shoulder.

“Harold. I wrote a letter to him a couple of weeks ago to let him know I’m here.”

“Hm.” Carla doesn’t frown, but she’s not smiling either.

* * *

The first time Carla hits him since they got to Arroyo, she’s drunk.

One of her uncles had brewed up some foul moonshine that would only get worse the longer they didn’t drink it. Thus, the villagers had celebrated their first successful harvest by going all out.

Lenny is sitting by the campfire, Carla leaning against his side roaring with laughter. He’d never seen her drink before, but she’s done four shots already, and isn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. Her face is flushed in the firelight and her arm around Lenny’s waist is warm and firm. Her loose hair tickles his neck when she leans to the side.

“Gonna get more,” she slurs, happy as a clam. A very drunk clam. She puts a hand on Lenny’s chest. “You want somethin’, love? Lenny love?”

Apparently drunk Carla makes up new pet names. Lenny knows he’s blushing too, but he hasn’t drank anything all night, figuring that the doctor of the group should probably stay sober. That, and alcohol didn’t affect ghouls as strongly.

“No, no – thank you, I’m good, C-Carla.” He jumps to his feet to steady her as she wobbles. “Actually, how a-about we go back – go home? I think y-you’ve had enough.”

“Haha, yeah,” she says, laughing and putting her hand somewhere on Lenny’s body it probably shouldn’t go in public. “Home. Go home. Sounds good.”

He ignores the scattered giggles from the other drunk people behind him and firmly leads her away. The further they get away from the fire and the party, the more handsy she gets, until he has to gently push her away so they can get in the door.

“Bed, C-Carla,” he says, struggling to keep his tone firm when she has her hand down his pants. “We’re not d-doing this when you – when you’re so drunk.”

“Aww,” she whines, “no, Len, lemme, let’s just – it’ll be real quick, don’t worry-”

He gently but firmly pushes her into the bedroom and guides her to lay down on the bed. She gets as far as sitting before she’s in his lap, grinding against him with her teeth locked down on his neck. Carla is never like this when she’s sober, so this behavior is shocking.

“Carla, no,” he snaps, no longer able to contain his irritation and discomfort. His stomach is churning like he’s going to be sick. He takes her shoulders and pushes her away. “Stop.”

If he had been expecting her to slap him, he could have mentally or physically prepared himself. But he had let his guard down. This leaves him stunned, staring up at her while rubbing his stinging cheek.

“What’s wrong with you?” She hysterically screams, then bursts into tears. “What the fuck is wrong with _me?_ Why don’t you want to have sex with me? Is it because I’m bad, or ugly, or you just hate me?” She thumps Lenny’s chest with her fists. “You fucking hate me! I knew it! You _should_ hate me! I’m ugly and mean and you’re going to leave me the second you can with some whore from New Reno that can treat you better! Why, Len? Why the fuck are you still with a bitch like me?”

“C-Carla, Carla,” he says, desperately repeating her name in the hopes she’ll listen. “No, I love you, I – I love you, C-Carla, please c-calm down. I’m s-sorry, sorry, C-Carla-”

It takes five minutes of this, five long minutes of her screaming obscenities and another slap to the face when he tries to grab her for a hug before she calms down, still sniffling as she passes out.

Lenny, lying next to her, finally stops crying three hours later. He stares at the ceiling, unable to sleep, until the sun rises. Carla, unsurprisingly, wakes much later. By that time, Lenny has gotten up and made breakfast, eaten the breakfast, put away the leftovers, swept the floor, and made tea.

“Len?” Carla croaks, shuffling into the room still in her clothing from the night before. “Fuck, I feel terrible. Oh, tea, you’re a lifesaver.” She sheepishly smiles. “I must have drank my weight in moonshine. Not doing _that_ again. I didn’t say or do anything stupid, did I? There’s no one I have to apologize to?”

He feels sick to his stomach, forcing a smile. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four shots of moonshine is a LOT of alcohol. According to several sources on the internet (I have not personally drank moonshine), one or two shots will get you pretty inebriated. This is your friendly disclaimer not to drink moonshine! Just stick to normal alcohol if you drink!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: there is a strong rape/noncon warning for the second-to-last scene (after the double lines) that I wasn't sure how to tag. The scene fades to black before anything particularly graphic (?) happens. Let me know if I should change the tags or warnings on the fic to account for this.

“You’re writing to Harold?” Carla asks, glancing over his shoulder as he folds the paper into an envelope.

“Yeah.” He stands to deliver it to the communal mailbox, but she stops him.

“I’ll take it,” she offers. “I’ve got a letter of my own to mail.”

He hands it over. “Okay – alright, if you’re sure. Thanks, C-Carla.”

She waves a hand. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

* * *

“Tell me a story about Carla,” the Elder prompts. “I feel like we’ve grown apart in so many ways, and I barely know my own daughter anymore.”

A story, a good story. One that doesn’t involve excessive violence or something bad happening to someone they were travelling with.

“The first t-time she drove the car,” he says, settling on a safe story.

“Oh, the car,” the Elder says, leaning forward, carefully cradling her cup of tea in her wrinkled hands. “It’s such a strange machine. However did she manage to operate it?”

For the first time in a week, Lenny laughs. “Very c-carefully. And w-with a lot of mistakes. She loves it – the car.” He lowers his gaze. “I think it p-patched something inside her up w-when everything went w-wrong.”

“What?” The Elder frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

Lenny hesitates, picking at a loose piece of skin. “I thought she’d g-gone mad with, with grief,” he says.

 _She did,_ a part of his mind whispers. _She didn’t,_ another piece argues. _She was always like this. It only made her worse. You cannot blame everything she did on that._

“When she found that we’d been kidnapped,” the Elder fills in. “She got very upset, and used the car as, as a sort of focus, something to fix and keep going?”

“You know h-her better than, than you think you do,” Lenny says. “Someone s-stole the car, once, and…” He trails off. That is not such a happy story. “And she…they…”

The Elder lays a hand on his bony shoulder. “My daughter’s violence is nothing new,” she gently says, saving him from having to elaborate. “She is protective of you, isn’t she? She’s done terrible things to protect those she loves.”

Lenny nods. “Very protective.” That’s one way to describe it.

* * *

Summer turns into fall, turns into winter, and Harold hasn’t written him back yet. Lenny’s inside their new adobe house when he hears the mail call, but Carla is first out the door.

“I’ll see if we got anything,” she calls over her shoulder. “It’s cold outside. Stay by the fire, Len.”

It _is_ cold, and the fire _is_ warm.

* * *

“Thank you so much for stitching up my son when he fell,” an older woman says, having approached Lenny during the large communal dinnertime.

“Uh, th-thank you…” He looks at Carla to supply a name to a face.

“Morlis, my aunt,” she prompts. “She’s Nagor’s mother.” Nagor, who had fallen and cut his leg badly on the jagged edge of a fence, who Lenny had spent a lot of time carefully stitching up then observing until he had healed.

“Please come sit with us at our fire,” Morlis says. “You’re a kind man, Lenny, and I feel like none of us hardly know you at all.”

Next to Lenny, Carla’s polite smile has turned tight. He vaguely remembers something about her and her aunt never getting along. But Lenny does pay attention to Arroyo’s politics, and knows that Aunt Morlis is a veteran member of the community, and well-respected for her military strategy and prowess, if not for her likeability.

Stuck between two bad options: joining Aunt Morlis and angering Carla, or outright refusing and potentially causing unnecessary tension in the village. Lenny hasn’t gotten this far in life by making enemies.

“H-How about you join me, join us, tonight?” He suggests, trying to take a neutral option. He scoots over and pats the dirt next to him.

Carla’s rising possessiveness has abated, and she gives him a sideways smile. “Wonderful idea, Len. It’s been so long since we talked, dear Aunt. Come join us.”

* * *

Winter winds turn warm and balmy, and Harold hasn’t written him back. Lenny has given Carla three more letters to send, but none of them have been answered. He’s scribbling out another attempt when Carla swings by the room.

“Writing to Harold again?” She asks, a note of pity in her voice. “Maybe he’s just too busy to write you back, Len.”

Harold, too busy to write? Lenny gnaws on his lip. But what Carla’s saying has a different implication attached: that Harold is too busy to write to _him._ But he and Harold have been friends for almost a decade now. That doesn’t get put to the side over nothing.

But maybe things have changed. Lenny, suddenly disheartened, abandons his letter halfway through, tossing the remnants of his efforts into the fire, watching the paper curl up and disintegrate.

* * *

The Elder has become easier and easier to talk to, but sometimes she says things in a tone of voice that Lenny doesn’t like, something between coddling and pitying. She looks at him like that too, like there’s something wrong with him. Like he needs help.

“Is it normal for your friend Harold to not write you back?”

It’s their weekly tea time, and Lenny has laid out his worries and insecurities about his friend’s lack of response. “No,” he says, “H-Harold isn’t very busy, not busy e-enough to not write – not write back to me.”

“I hate to ask you this, but how much do you trust Carla?”

“What?” This is one of those questions that she sometimes asks that makes his gut freeze. “I t-trust her completely.”

“Of course you do, dear.” There’s that pitying smile again. “But she always takes your letters to put them in the box, and she’s the one who fetches the mail for you. Have you ever considered that she might-”

“No.” He stands on shaky legs. “No, she w-wouldn’t – I have to – I have to go.”

 _How much do you trust Carla?_ The Elder’s voice replays back in his mind, but he shuts his eyes and stops thinking about that. _Completely. Completely._

* * *

Once the ground warms up, construction begins on the main administration building and connected outbuildings. One of them, as per Lenny’s suggestion, was going to be a small clinic. Carla had whole-heartedly agreed with his plan, advocating for his designs in the planning meetings.

After two weeks, most of which Lenny spends in the fields helping with planting, the clinic is done. He spends an entire day getting set up. Finally, after so long, a place to call his own to do work, even if it’s just a small room with a table, a chair, and a bed. There’s a trunk under the table he stows medical supplies. The bed is made up with fresh linens. A homemade sign is hung over the door proclaiming that this was a clinic. There are flowerboxes on the windows, two of them with medicinal herbs, two of them with azaleas.

His first patient is a woman from the Vault named Audrey. She’s young, no older than Carla. Two other men from the Vault help her limp into the clinic and set her on the chair.

“Cut my leg in the fields,” she says through gritted teeth.

Lenny scrambles into action. He cleans the wound and surveys the damage. It’s going to need stitches. He offers Audrey some mild homemade painkillers, but she refuses. It’s not a long cut, but it’s deep. While Lenny works, he keeps his head down and doesn’t say much. Even after a year being here, he barely knows any of them.

That doesn’t stop Audrey from chattering away the whole time he works. Talking about herself, asking about him and his life. He gives short responses, keeping his eyes on his work.

“You’re real nice, Doc,” she says as Lenny smears a healing powder paste over the stitched-up wound. “Listen, after we wrap up here, how about we head over and get a drink? I hear Jordan’s fixed up some new brew that he says won’t poison us all.”

He manages a polite smile. “No t-thank you. Please k-keep this dry for a day, then you – then you can w-wash it a little. Come – please come back in a w-week to get them taken out.”

Audrey gives him a winning smile and stands, testing her injured leg. “Okay, Doc. See you later!”

* * *

* * *

Audrey comes back the next day. She’s not injured or anything, she just hangs out and talks some more, bidding him goodbye after an hour to go do some light work. It makes Lenny nervous. He’s not sure if it would be better to tell Carla about it now so she doesn’t think he’s going behind her back, or to not draw unnecessary attention to something unimportant.

He opts for the latter. Audrey visits him every day, sometimes just popping in for a quick hello. She brings him an apple one day, a bottle of water another hot day. She is kind and sweet. Lenny’s getting more and more worried with each visit.

A week passes, and it’s time to take out the stitches. The wound is healing nicely, and the scar will be very small and faint. As Lenny works to carefully remove them, Audrey is chattering away. Finally, Lenny declares the work done, and washes his hands before applying some more healing powder, an extra safeguard against infection.

“Len?” Carla pokes her head into the clinic as he’s spreading the paste on the wound and lightly bandaging it. “And…Audrey.” Her gaze is not as friendly towards the other woman.

“Ma’am.” Audrey immediately clams up and looks nervously between Lenny and Carla. “He does good work.”

“That he does.” Carla leans against the edge of the table and watches as Lenny finishes wrapping the bandage and declares his work done.

“Please do not a-aggravate the wound for a-another week,” he advises. “Take care.”

Audrey hops off the chair and pats him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

As soon as she’s gone, Carla moves to the entrance and flips the OPEN sign over so it reads CLOSED, then slips the loops of the curtain door over the latches, effectively locking the door.

“C-Carla?” Lenny says, apprehensive. The way Carla’s looking at him right now is not good. She approaches and he backs up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Still she gets closer until she’s looming over him. “C-Carla-”

“How dare she,” Carla hisses, grabbing Lenny’s shoulder. “What did she do to you, Len? Where did she touch you?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?”

Carla snarls, her hair puffing out behind her like an angry lion’s mane. “Don’t even fucking try that, Len. She couldn’t have been less discreet. Secretly meeting in here every day, with no one else around, what was I supposed to believe, that she was just being _friendly?”_ She digs her fingernails into Lenny’s hip, over the tattoo there that he tries not to remember. “Did she make you fuck her?”

“What?” He squeaks, a protest already forming on his lips, but Carla has plowed on.

“No, not enough time for that, was there? She probably just jerked you off.” Carla’s hand grabs the front of his pants and squeezes suddenly. Lenny flinches back with a yelp and falls on the bed, Carla moving to straddle him even as he tries to squirm away. “She made you happy, didn’t she? She was better than me, wasn’t she?” She challenges, even as Lenny is shaking his head, his constant stream of denials doing nothing to soothe Carla’s suspicions.

“I’m going to show her that she can’t mess with what’s _mine,”_ Carla growls, roughly yanking Lenny’s pants down to his thighs. “But first I think I need to remind you that I can make you happy too.”

“No, C-Carla, s-s-stop,” Lenny pleads, ineffectually pushing at Carla’s shoulders. “Please, C-Carla, don’t-”

“Shut up!” She snaps. “You’re lucky I’m not punishing you for going behind my back.” She reaches into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulls out a thin length of cord. With a heave, she pulls him off the bed and bends him forward, wrenching his arms high behind his back and tying them tightly together. Ignoring his protests, she winds the cord around the bottom latticework of the bedframe and ties it tight. Then she shoves a rag into his mouth. “You’re lucky I know that _she’s_ the one who seduced you, and not the other way around.”

Lenny struggles against his restraints, shaking his head, sobbing behind the gag. She _is_ punishing him.

For a second, Carla loses the violently efficient edge to her shoulders. She cups his chin and kisses his cheek. “Len, darlin’, I love you, and all I want is to make sure you’re with me and happy forever. That’s what you want too, right?”

Shaking his head no right now would get him slapped or worse, so Lenny shuts his eyes and nods, then blanks out everything that happens next.

* * *

Townsfolk avoid Audrey’s tent after that, even weeks after the paint fades, until the word SLUT painted in big letters on the side of the canvas fabric is finally gone. Audrey doesn’t talk to Lenny again.

He’s just surprised that Carla had left her alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: brief mention/implication of sexual assault (first scene), mention of vomiting, minor character death.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, dear,” the Elder says, handing Lenny a steaming cup of tea. “Carla said it wasn’t serious, but you were down for a whole week.”

He nods. Whatever weird bug had laid him low had left him shaking even though it was warm, throwing up after eating the slightest thing. He’d laid in bed for hours, horribly depressed, knowing that there was a reason why but forcing himself not to think about it.

“Lenny, dear,” she gently says, pulling him back to the present. “I’m very concerned about you, about you and Carla. Could I ask you some questions?”

His hands tighten around his cup. He nods. His throat has closed up and talking seems impossible.

“Does Carla treat you well?” She asks. An impossible question to answer just like that. Lenny shrugs. “Is she nice to you?” Another shrug. The Elder’s face falls. “Lenny, dear, the fact you didn’t answer me with an immediate yes is starting to worry me. I’m sorry to even ask this, but has she ever hurt you?”

Lenny’s holding the cup too tightly. With shaking hands, he sets it down. He nods.

“Oh Gods,” the Elder whispers, sounding horrified. “Has she hit you?” Another nod. “My daughter, my own daughter. How could she – she’s always been violent, but not, I never thought…” She drags a hand down her face, visibly shaken. “Where did she go wrong? How did I never notice?”

She gently enfolds Lenny’s hands in her own. “I’m going to make this right, I promise. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I’ll get you out of this. I was so myopic, so naïve to think that my daughter was still my perfect child. I don’t even want to ask, because there’s nothing I want more than for the answer to be no, but…” Tears start falling down her kind wrinkled face. “Has she ever forced you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

If someone could pass out while still being conscious, that’s what Lenny does when she asks him. He can’t nod, he can’t shake his head, he just stares at his knees and feels his lungs spasm, every panicked breath ringing in his ears. His mind buzzes with the effort it takes to not think about the question. To not think about the answer.

“I’m sorry,” the Elder says, squeezing his hands. She pulls him to his feet. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Lenny waits and waits, but Carla doesn’t come back from her conversation with the Elder. Eventually he falls asleep. He wakes slowly to the feeling of Carla’s arms wrapped around him, her hair draped over the both of them. Lenny yawns and itches to run his hands through her hair, to finger-comb it until it’s smooth. He tries to move his arms.

 _Tries_ is the key word there. He is suddenly very awake, recognizing the feeling of handcuffs restraining his arms behind his back.

There is an entire second where his mind goes white-hot with panic. But he can’t go falling apart at the littlest thing. Lenny closes his eyes and practices every calming tactic he’s ever known until his breathing steadies.

What’s going on? Why – it’s been almost a year now since he’s woken up like this. Does Carla not _trust_ him anymore? He has nothing to do but wait for her to wake up. Does he dare directly ask what’s going on? He dozes off again, and wakes to Carla moving, the sun streaming in through the window.

“Good morning, Len,” she says.

Lenny sits up and finds that his hands are unencumbered. Did he just dream the whole thing? “Good morning, C-Carla,” he replies, confused. She’s already up and braiding her hair back. He could ask how her conversation with the Elder went, but it’s safe to assume it did not go well. It’d be better, in case she was angry about it, to avoid bringing it up.

“Come on, sleepyhead.” Carla helps Lenny to his feet. “I made breakfast already. I’ll be out all day, we’re having a town meeting that I need to prepare for.” She pulls him into a kiss, which he reciprocates. “Have a good day. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

“Okay.” Lenny sees her out the door, then sits down to the breakfast that Carla’s prepared. It’s not extravagant, just a cooked egg and a small bowl of oatmeal with splashes of cinnamon and small chunks of fresh apples in it. There’s a cup of steaming tea that, when he drinks it, is a noticeably sweeter than he usually takes it. Carla must have put some honey in it, the way she likes it.

Breakfast over and dishes washed, Lenny starts his day at the clinic. First is a checkup of some village children, then organizing the supplies and tools. Everything is in order. He starts sewing some new bandages out of scraps of fabric he’s been hoarding.

At eleven o’clock, after an hour and a half of work, he starts feeling dizzy. It must be getting warmer. Midsummer is well on the way, and that means blindingly hot temperatures. He’d better sit down and rest. But as soon as he sits, it’s like his feet and hands have instantly fallen asleep.

Nausea and dread curl up in his stomach like a cat going to sleep. Is he getting sick again? He should go get a drink of water from the well. When he stands, the dizziness returns. He winces and pushes down nausea that batters at his throat when he goes out into the sunny village. His hands shake as he draws water.

“Are you okay, Doc?” Someone asks, but their voice is distant and warped in his ears. Lenny turns and the sunlight flashes in his eyes, turning into a whirling kaleidoscope of color. It’s Carla’s cousin Nagor, he thinks.

Lenny blacks out for a second, and finds himself on the ground on his hands and knees coughing. He retches, the nausea returning with a vengeance.

Nagor has started screaming for Carla, for someone to help. Lenny winks out of consciousness again. Hands are grabbing at him and feeling his forehead, rubbing his back, pulling him up and towards the clinic.

“Sssh, Len,” Carla is saying, her voice distant and desperate. She sounds close, though, and judging by the disorienting feeling of being rocked, Lenny guesses that she’s carrying him. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong with you, just lay back, Lenny love, it’s going to be okay-”

The Elder had asked him if Carla was kind. He had shrugged then, hadn’t been sure what to say. But _this_ is kind. She is being gentle and caring now. But still…

* * *

Lenny struggles into wakefulness a few hours later. He immediately throws up into a bucket that Carla quickly pushes into his hands. She gives him a glass of water to wash his mouth out with.

He’s exhausted just by that, falling back on the clinic bed and groaning. Everything aches, and his toes are tingling again, prickling uncomfortably. “What h-happened?”

“We don’t know,” Carla says. “It’s hard to tell. It could either be a stomach bug going around, or mild food poisoning from something you’ve eaten in the past couple of days. Judging by the fact that it happened so suddenly, the food poisoning route seems more likely. I’m having people look at our food stores right now.”

“Maybe the e-egg I had for – for breakfast was bad?” He suggests, curling up and wishing he could pass out again, because everything hurts and he feels like he could throw up again.

Carla presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll look into it. Just rest, dear.”

* * *

There are brief periods where Carla has to leave him to attend to business, but she always comes back. She eats a late lunch while working on reports, sitting at his bedside.

She stands up when the tent flap to the clinic opens. “Mother.” There’s something cold in her voice.

The Elder steps into the room. “I heard Lenny had taken ill.”

Carla visibly forces her shoulders to relax. She sits and takes Lenny’s clammy hand. “That’s right. We think it’s food poisoning.”

“May I sit with him awhile?”

“Of course.” Carla stands again. “I’ll fetch us some tea. The usual for you, Mother, and I’ll go out to the herb garden and pick some peppermint for Len.” She grabs the small kettle from under the clinic table. “I’ll be back.” She briskly breezes out the door.

When she’s gone, the Elder waits a minute before speaking. “How are you feeling, dear?”

Lenny shifts to sit up on the bed. The Elder helps prop him up with pillows. “Sick-” Sitting up had not been kind to his stomach, and he coughs, pushing down nausea. The Elder worriedly pushes the bucket into his hands, but he shakes his head and gives it back. “T-Terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling his forehead. “Oh dear, you’ve been so sickly lately. Is this normal for ghouls such as yourself?”

He may have been sick almost this entire month, but this feels different than how he felt before. The last week, he knew that there was nothing physically wrong with him, but this time there definitely _is._ Lenny shakes his head at her question. “Last night you- you talked with C-Carla-”

She sighs. “I did. She didn’t seem to take it too badly, but she also wasn’t happy. She said she’d think about what she was doing and try to be better, then she stormed out. I’m not sure if that was the response I was looking for. I just hope that she sees the error of her ways, but maybe that’s too much to hope for.” She gives him a weak smile, far from the warm ones she usually wears. “But don’t you worry about that, dear. Just rest up. Hopefully this is a twenty-four-hour thing that will go away soon.”

“Thank you,” he croaks, then coughs again. This time, he does need the bucket.

After ten minutes, Carla returns with a tray with two cups of tea on it. She sets it down and points at one of the cups. “That one, the one without honey, is yours, Mother, the way you like it,” she makes a face, “bitter. Len, yours is still steeping.” She sets a minty-smelling teapot on the clinic table. After a few more minutes where they silently sip their tea, she pours it into a cup and puts it into his trembling hands.

The tea is fragrant and helps settle his stomach, though he still feels dizzy and tingly weird.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the Elder says, standing with her tea. “I must attend to some affairs.” She wipes her forehead. “Goodness, it’s getting warm, isn’t it?”

“Midsummer will be here soon,” Carla comments. “I won’t be along for dinner later, so could you have someone bring me a plate, please?”

“Of course.” The Elder bites her lip and looks at Carla, then enfolds her daughter in a hug. “Take care, you two. I’ll be along tomorrow to check on you again, Lenny dear.”

* * *

After the tea, Lenny rests and Carla works again. Dinner comes along, a hearty plate for Carla and a bowl of thin gruel for Lenny, though he only manages to keep a few spoonfuls down. Carla makes him another cup of tea, which he gratefully drinks.

Carla is getting antsy. She keeps looking at the door and bouncing her leg, something nervous in her eyes.

They both jump when someone outside starts screaming. Carla stands and throws open the flap of the clinic door. “What’s going on?” She yells.

“The Elder!” Someone wails. “Oh Gods, the Elder-”

Carla is off running. Lenny, too weak and nauseous to move, has no choice but to wait until someone returns to tell him what is happening. He knows it’s bad, though, feels the cold hand of apprehension gripping his gut. Something terrible has happened.

* * *

“A heart attack, we think,” Carla quietly says, her eyes red-rimmed. She grips Lenny’s hand like it’s the only thing she’s got left. “She didn’t look well before, someone said, but then she started convulsing. There’s no history of seizures in the family,” she breaks to sniffle, “so it was probably a heart problem.”

She’s not crying, though it looks like she was earlier. Lenny is doing enough crying for the both of them. It’s all so sudden. It’s all so terrible.

* * *

Carla doesn’t like to cry around him, Lenny decides, because he never sees her cry about her mother’s death.

She just doesn’t want him to see her cry. That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Lenny and the Elder? Instead of giving you the answer, I'll give you some hints:  
> 1\. Yes, Carla did do it. It was not an accident or a coincidence.  
> 2\. It was poison (the same), but in different doses. Add that to the fact that Lenny has very high endurance (and stuff doesn't affect ghouls as strongly) and the Elder is pretty old and fragile.  
> 3\. The source for the poison was mentioned last chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the Major Character Death warning comes in.

Lenny’s food poisoning, if that’s what it was, resolves itself in two days. He’s back on his feet in three, but there isn’t much work in the clinic. This brings him out into the fields to help with the summer harvest, then back into the clinic to help someone who inevitably cuts themselves on their scythe.

The village is somber, grim. Lenny had missed the Elder’s funeral service, but he pays her grave a visit, bringing fresh flowers.

Carla is quickly named the new Elder, not a surprise. She’s been in an acting role for months now in preparation for the day she would have to take over. Nobody had thought that day would come so soon, though. There is little opposition, though some of the more traditional members of the community think that the position should go to someone older. But none of them can deny that Carla has the necessary experience.

* * *

The first time Carla hits him in public, she’s not drunk. There is no excuse.

It all starts with an argument. An ill-timed one by someone who wasn’t good at reading Carla’s mood, who hadn’t realized that she was nearly at the end of her rope already. It was a bad day full of frustrating meetings and unproductive work, and Carla was ready to pick a fight as soon as lunchtime rolled around.

And a fight she would get.

Lucas, who Carla had fought so long ago, comes running into Lenny’s clinic, breathless from panic. “Need you, Doc,” he says, “Carla – by the well – a fight-”

Lenny grabs his first aid kit and runs out the door. It’s not hard to find the fight, since all he has to do is follow the sound of screaming. Fifteen or twenty-ish people are gathered in a circle around them, but they break to let Lenny through. Several of them are screaming at Carla to stop. One of the young men in the circle is nursing a bloody nose, an obvious failure to physically stop her.

Carla is standing above a man who Lenny vaguely recognizes as Jordan, who makes the alcohol in the village. As he watches, she stomps down on his chest, and even from this distance, he hears something crack. Jordan shrieks and tries to crawl away. His head is bleeding, and blood is dripping from the edge of the well.

Broken ribs, possible concussion, and a broken hand or wrist judging by the way he’s cradling his left hand. He needs help, and fast.

“Carla!” Lenny yells, abandoning caution to run towards her. This is not a Carla who will stop when she wants; she is hell-bent on killing this man. As she raises her foot for another stomp, he runs in between them and puts one hand on her chest, clutching his first aid kit box tightly. There is a large chance that this could not work. “C-Carla, please-”

“Len,” she snarls, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him to the side. “Don’t interfere.” To the crowd’s horror, she draws a knife twice the length of her hand. “This is between him and me.”

“No!” He pleads, willing himself to start crying. It doesn’t take much these days, and soon he’s loudly sobbing. “C-Carla, don’t, p-please, just leave him a-alone. You’re scaring- you’re scaring me. Haven’t you done e-enough? You’ve a-already won, C-Carla.”

She glares at him, then over his shoulder at Jordan. With a disgusted narrowing of her eyes, she sheathes the knife and turns on her heel, yanking Lenny along by the arm. “Fine.”

Lenny digs his heels in. They’re just going to leave him injured like that? “C-Carla-”

She whirls. “What. Now.”

“He needs m-medical help, r-right now,” he says, knowing that he shouldn’t be arguing with her like this. But a man is lying there severely injured who needs help immediately. “He h-has broken ribs and a broken h-hand, and maybe-”

The gathered crowd gasps, the sound of Carla’s slap echoing in the small square. Lenny sees her eyes widen in realization of what she’s done. She reaches for him and he flinches back, shaking his head, his mind buzzing with shock.

“Len,” Carla whispers, reaching for him again. “Len, I’m sorry-”

He shakes his head and backs up. She doesn’t get to pretend this didn’t happen, not when everyone in the village saw it. People are murmuring, mutters of “oh my Gods” and “how could she do that?”

Carla sets her mouth in a hard line and turns on her heel, stalking away, pushing through the crowd which quickly parts to let her through. Lenny watches her go, unsure of what he should do.

A quiet groan reminds him that he has a patient. He kneels at Jordan’s side, quickly re-assessing his injuries. “C-Can you walk?” He quietly asks, dashing tears from his own cheeks. He needs to be a doctor right now.

Jordan nods, his eyes wide with shock. Lenny waves over a man and a woman who rush over to help him stand, making sure he doesn’t aggravate his injured ribs.

“Lenny.” Aunt Morlis is at his shoulder. “Are you okay-”

“Water,” he says, cutting her off. There is nothing he wants less than to talk about it. “Please fetch me w-water.”

Her face falls. “Okay. Is there anything else you need?”

He shakes his head. “No, t-thank you. I’ve got it under c-control.”

* * *

Ghouls don’t need to sleep, so Lenny doesn’t that night. He stays awake in the clinic in a chair sewing bandages until the sun comes up again and his aching fingers are screaming for him to stop. Aunt Morlis brings both Lenny and Jordan breakfast.

“Lenny,” she says, uncharacteristically gentle as she slowly moves her arm to cup his shoulder. “I need to ask you some questions. Me and some…other people need know: Was this the first time Carla has hit you?”

He shakes his head. His chest is so heavy it feels like it’s going to burst, large spiderweb cracks radiating out from his heart.

From the bed, Jordan makes a noise that is both horrified and understanding.

“Has she done worse?” Aunt Morlis asks, looking much older than she is. Lenny shuts his eyes and nods. Morlis pats his shoulder. “We’re going to take care of this,” she promises.

Lenny shrugs. That’s what the Elder had said too.

* * *

Night is falling, and Lenny needs to make a decision: should he go home?

On one hand, he’s not sure if he’s ready to face Carla right now. On the other hand, though, he can’t hide here forever.

He makes the decision to go home. If things go south, he’ll just leave and crash in the clinic again.

“C-Carla?” He quietly calls out as he opens the door to their house.

“Len?” She’s sitting in the kitchen, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes red-rimmed. There’s a bottle of something on the table in front of her that she’s slumped over. Her speech is what you would expect from someone who has drank altogether too much. “Len,” she scrapes her chair back and stands, “I thought you – that you’d left or something, where have you _been?”_

“At the c-clinic.” He stays in the doorway. Just in case.

Carla approaches too quickly and he can’t suppress a flinch, but Carla is too far gone to notice anyways, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I missed you,” she sobs, grabbing his arms. “Len, I’m _sorry_ and I _missed_ you and please, just stay, Len, please.”

She looks like a disaster. But shouldn’t Lenny be the one who is falling apart, not her? Shouldn’t she be the one comforting him, and not the other way around?

“Of c-course I’ll stay, C-Carla,” he says, gently guiding her into the bedroom. “It’s late. L-Let’s just go to sleep.”

“Okay.” She sniffles and sits down on the bed with him. Then her look turns frantic. Too quickly for him to react, she yanks his arms behind his back and handcuffs his wrists together.

“Carla-”

“Please don’t,” she pleads, “please don’t argue with me. Just be quiet, be good, I just can’t have you _leave_ me, Len.”

 _Unhealthy. Co-dependent. Obsessive._ Lenny’s clinical mind starts supplying adjectives, long-passed warning signs telling him to run. _Manipulative. Violent. Abusive._ He should leave right now, but he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and promises himself to deal with the situation in the morning. He’s exhausted and he doesn’t have the energy right now.

“O-Okay. Good night, C-Carla.”

“Good night.” She curls up around him.

* * *

Lenny wakes to someone picking him up. He kicks and struggles, but they’re holding on too tightly, dragging him up and off the bed. There’s something wet against his cheek and soaking into the sleeve of his shirt. It smells like blood.

“Ssh,” a female voice whispers to him. It’s croaky and rough. Aunt Morlis. “You couldn’t have waited until _after_ he was out of the way, Lucas?”

“I didn’t wanna risk it,” Lucas hisses, “she could have woken up when we tried to move him.”

Something is happening, and Lenny needs to wake up. Right. Now. His eyes flutter open as the handcuffs holding his arms back are unlocked.

“What’s g-goin’ on,” he mutters, half-asleep.

“You’re safe now,” Morlis whispers, steadying him as he finds his feet. “Don’t worry, Lenny, you’re safe now.”

What does she mean by that- oh. Lenny fully opens his eyes and sees the pool of blood dripping from the bed. He looks up to see Carla’s legs, then her waist, then her chest, then her neck-

It’s a good thing Aunt Morlis is still holding onto him. His eyes roll back in his head and he faints.

* * *

Carla is dead.

These words make sense separately, but when Lenny tries to put them together, they sound like nothing. Garbage syllables strung together into something that’s not true. It just _isn’t_ true.

Four hours after Carla’s throat is slit, Lenny can’t deny the fact that Carla is _dead._ He starts screaming because he doesn’t know what else to do, and doesn’t stop until his throat hurts too much to breathe.

Fifteen hours, and he curls up and tries to sleep, but can’t.

Twenty-two hours, and they try to get him to eat, without success.

Thirty-three hours after Carla dies, Lenny sits up from his position laying on Nagor’s bed, where he’d been staring up at the ceiling, unmoving. His mind keeps on replaying the last time he saw Carla, dead on her bed with her throat slit and blood gushing from the wound, her blank eyes staring up into nothing.

Sixty-five hours after Carla’s abrupt assassination, Morlis pushes a piece of bread into his hands and won’t leave until he eats it. It tastes like charred wood.

Ninety hours, Lenny cries for two hours straight, then finally passes out.

One hundred and twenty-five hours, Lucas wrestles Lenny into a fresh shirt and gives him a hug. Lenny doesn’t move or say anything. What is there to do? What is there to say?

One hundred and sixty-four hours, Lenny realizes that he should have never travelled with Carla, that he should have left the moment he had first felt scared of her. Why did he stay after the first time she hit him, why did he stay after the second, why did he stay after the eleventh, why did he stay after she shot him, why, why-

Two hundred and thirty-one hours without Carla, Lenny returns home (was it even _home_ without her?). It’s been cleaned, but the villagers didn’t quite know what to do with Carla’s belongings, or even what was his and what was hers. Lenny wanders the house and finds himself in the bedroom. He falls asleep that night clutching Carla’s old vault suit.

Three hundred and seventy-seven hours after Carla’s death, Lenny finds a bundle of letters in the bottom of drawer of Carla’s desk. It’s every letter he ever wrote to Harold, and dozens of letters that Harold wrote back, that Lenny never received. Wondering how he is. Worrying when he never receives a letter in return. Asking if everything is okay. Offering to visit. Lenny stares at them in disbelief, then throws the whole packet into the fire.

One thousand one hundred and fifty-two hours after Lenny sees Carla die, summer turns into winter, and he couldn’t care less about the cold. Most days he doesn’t even light a fire. He knows that he should be able to go on. He’s lived for two hundred years going through the end of the world, but he’s falling apart at this?

One thousand four hundred and eighty-eight hours, and some of the villagers start worrying about him. Morlis and her family have always worried, but now others start stopping by. Someone gets injured on purpose, he thinks, to get him out of the house and into the clinic. He bandages up their leg and straightens up his workspace, then sits on the floor and stares at nothing.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty hours after Carla dies. Three months alone. Organizing the clinic’s medical supplies, Lenny finds a small never-used bottle of cyanide.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty-one hours, someone finds his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's any consolation to anyone out there, I am in the middle of writing something where normal Carla and Lenny and this Carla and Len meet up, and uhhh they throw hands because Carla is not standing for this.

**Author's Note:**

> The happier of fic I write, the most angsty fic I must write to balance it out, I guess?


End file.
